


bravo, now get some

by atavists



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Gen, just the first episode, random parts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-06-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:41:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23896222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atavists/pseuds/atavists
Summary: Private Aléjandra Jordan's observations and musings of the week before First Recon venture into war.
Relationships: Brad Colbert/Ray Person
Kudos: 7





	1. prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this written and up on wattpad for a good few years now but I thought I'd move it over here. All it is is a few random parts set during the events of episode one - I probably had bigger intentions for it but as always my motivation to finish it up waned. Still, what's here is decent enough to share again after a quick edit, so enjoy

2002.

Prior to the announcement that the United States of America were prepared to commission armed forces to enter Iraq as part of the ‘War on Terror’ following intervention in Afghanistan, the decision to allow women to serve in combat-effective elite reconnaissance marine corps was made on the basis that the country aimed to be viewed by the eyes of the world as an evolutionary, unfettered, and unbeatable power.

With unavoidable and inevitable criticism drawn from both external and internal positions within the marine corps, the hopeful enlistees were subject to gruelling training required in order to enter the corps. With the efforts made by the enlistees highly publicised by American media, a struggle ensued between press and marine enforcement in order to protect the identities of the women.

Out of eighty women who were subject to the series of evaluative exercises, only two succeeded in all areas of criteria and finalised their training in order to become United States recon marines.

Their names were Lance Corporal Sylvie Rowe and Private First Class Aléjandra Jordan.

2003.

The United States of America, alongside other notable allies and military forces, invade Iraq with the aim to liberate and occupy the country, freeing Iraqis from the oppressive rule of Saddam Hussein.

There is no declaration of war made by the invading allies. The majority of the land used by the Marine Corps First Reconnaissance Battalion to access Baghdad is occupied by civilians.


	2. crossword

“No - keep the engine off, Ray,” Brad scolded. 

His tiresome response to the lowly hum of the vehicle drew Aléjandra’s attention towards the two men. Both were wrapped around the Humvee protectively, palms flattened against the metal hull in a subconscious caress as if it were a child they shared.

The sound of the active engine disappeared almost as promptly as it had arrived. Ray shifted away from the driver’s side of the truck, pointing attentively to an item scattered somewhere in-between the unorganised pile of shit that the pair had been lugging around for as long as Alé could remember. 

She’d often tried to get her hands on the stuff, if only to tidy it a little, or perhaps even discard the meaningless shit she was certain must have accounted for at least seventy percent of the knick-knacks. She had, however, learnt over time that the two men were notoriously wary of the whereabouts of their personal belongings. For someone as meticulous as Brad, she found it a wonder how he put up with Ray as well as he did, what with the almost-intentional lack of complete organisation he seemed to have.

“Brad, can you hand me that pencil?” 

Alé looked back down at her own pencil, still poised against her notepad, her focus on Brad and Ray diminished as talk of coax and grid-pin connectors ensued. The days at Camp Mathilda were long and unbearably warm, but the worst thing by far was the dust. An olive-green bandanna gifted from one of her exes served as a shield she’d fashioned and wore over her nose and mouth like many of the other marines, but it may as well have been hypothetical. Flecks of sand-like particles still managed to consistently line the corners of her nostrils and lips. 

She’d been reassured time and time again that everybody was in the same boat. In fact she was lucky she hadn’t got the eye-infections a couple of others had, like Trombley. Though who knows; Trombley’s eye infection probably wasn’t even caused by dust, but more likely the incessant jacking-off-and-aiming-into-his-eyes he went at when he thought no-one was around.

She could help work on the Humvee, but to no surprise, it was practically Brad and Ray’s baby. So, somewhat ashamedly, she’d taken to occupying herself with sudoku and crossword puzzles. Her friends back in Inglewood would most definitely give her shit for it, but she’d already thought of the excuse. 

She’d need brain-training exercises to keep her mind at a sane level around all the dumb-fucks there was no escape from while stuck in the middle-of-fucking-nowhere.

“Actually Brad, Falcon View is a civilian version.” Ray’s voice travelled over the ten feet or so of space from the Humvee to where Alé was perched in a manner which didn’t exactly come across as pretentious, but definitely matter-of-factly. From Ray himself, Alé wouldn’t expect anything less. “It's like over-the-counter.”

Alé gazed over at Brad, covering her eyes from the penetrating rays of sun with her hand. He’d stopped working, statuesque as ever as he used his left arm to lean against the Humvee. He looked point-blank at Ray, emphasising the assuming expression plastered onto his face.

“You mean off the shelf?” he asked. He wasn’t actually asking of course, but stating.

Ray began to shuffle from foot to foot as a cover to avoid Brad’s stare. “Yeah, I said that.”

“No... you didn’t.” 

“Yeah, I did, but I used a poor choice of words.”

Brad dropped the issue, lifting his weight away from the Humvee as Ray finally regained the dignity to make eye contact with a man technically his superior again. 

Alé had always found power dynamics interesting, especially in cases like this where she wouldn’t be surprised that if the two of them had met through a regular office job rather than the marines they’d fuck without shame in the staffroom on their break. She wasn’t sure whether thoughts like that were a result of the rabid crudeness or resounding homoeroticism she couldn’t escape out in the desert. 

Who’s to say it wasn’t both? Like the basis of the crosswords and sudoku, however, she would never let anyone know.

“I wish we’d installed those Bose-outdoor-speakers on the roof,” Ray pondered aloud. “We could roll through Iraqi towns playing music like GG Allin.”

There was no recognition on Alé’s part to the name GG Allin. She imagined him as a serial-killer, or at least that was what his name made her think of, but most of the time those white guys actually were. The name Trombley sounded like someone who might be a serial killer. 

“Ray - are you breaking my no country music rule again?” Brad retorted. 

“Are you kidding me?” Ray scoffed. “GG Allin is like, the original punk-rocker who believed killing people should be legalised. He was fucking awesome.”

Alé was at a loss for words, but it certainly wasn’t the worst she’d heard from Ray. She returned to look at her crossword, each individual letter scattering on the page as she tried to concentrate. She’d never drawn attention to her dyslexia in training, and had only mentioned it once to Brad. He’d just laughed and told her she seemed too smart to have retard tendencies. 

Number nine, five letters - the first name of the twenty-one year old French-Canadian singer-songwriter, who had her debut hit in 2002 with ‘Complicated’.

“Well, Ray, we don’t have speakers. And I think I’m good,” Brad grunted. “Anyone remember Recon Marines are swift, silent, and deadly?”

The pencil in Alé's hand pressed onto the page, marking out the word AVRIL. Now, Avril didn’t sound like a serial killer. Just an emo, which is what she was. Born and bred to be an emo. Nice.

Ray spluttered at Brad’s suggestion, and consequently provided his own. “What about swift, silent, and stoned?”

And while Avril was coincidentally born to be an emo, Ray was born to be a moron. 

Brad thought so too. “Why’d you always say that stupid shit?” 

“What?” Ray questioned cluelessly, shuffling on the spot once again in order to avoid Brad’s looming figure. 

“You don’t even do drugs!” Brad exclaimed, his voice elevating to a volume which he rarely bothered with. 

Alé’s attention is piqued to the conversation going on in front of her. The pair of them loved to bicker twenty-four-seven, but the conversations were rarely as amusing as the way Brad and Ray were able to go back and forth in this manner. There was the possibility of this turning to gold, and Alé had an enviable vantage point from which to watch. 

She wasn’t sure if Ray had noticed she was so close to the pair of them. She’d assume the same of Brad, but he’d almost tripped up over her as he made his way towards the Humvee earlier, lugging spare auto-parts in his lumbering arms to the vehicle.

Ray placed the right hand of his lanky arm on his hip, lost in the draping fabric of his camo-pants. “Well how’d you know I don’t do drugs?” 

Brad stayed quiet, allowing the question to ruminate, and Alé was almost certain that he aimed a glance over in her direction for the briefest amount of time. 

“You were on the debate team in high school,” he finally declared, each word laced with intended malice.

“So?” 

“Nobody on the debate team ever does drugs,” Brad explained, “or gets laid.”

“I- I just don’t see the facts on which you’re basing your argument.” Ray had stammered as he spoke, desperately searching for a suitable response. 

Brad was probably right, but Alé wouldn’t know. If you were on the debate team at her high school you’d be lucky to get away with a lack of sex alone. Matter of fact, she wasn’t sure her high school had even had a debate team.

“Well,” Brad mused, “we all know you didn’t lose your virginity until after Afghanistan, Rayc.”

Alé just about caught the mutter of, “Jesus Christ,” as it slipped from Ray’s upturned lips.

Brad decided to push him further. “A whore in Australia, Ray; she was an Aboriginal.” Alé sensed that Brad’s description was provided solely for her, a lucky audience member in what was becoming an increasingly juicy and improvised performance.

“I- okay- she was a European-African woman.”

“Ha - a European-African woman?” 

“Yes, she was.” 

“No, she wasn’t.” Brad denied. “She was one of those big, angry, drunk women in the street in Perth selling boomerangs and playing didgeridoos.”

“Brad- Brad!” Ray whined, and to Alé, he seemed to be nearing the end of his tether. But after a few deep breaths he managed to calm himself; just not quite calm enough to string together a straight response. “Those just aren't the pertinent facts, alright, we’re having a fuckin’ professional debate here. And besides, she just grabbed me when I came out of the bar. It’s not like I asked her.”

“Well, even if you’re claiming you were raped the fact stands - you were a virgin until we got back from Afghanistan.”

Alé watched on as Ray bounced on the balls of his feet. Ray would’t go down without a fight. Not the most articulate, bullshitting always seemed to work better for him. 

“Right, and what about you, Brad?” His tone of voice insinuated a tide-turning. “You’re just some pointy-headed Stewie-baby raking the shag carpet in your fuckin’ family’s living room.”

For a moment, Alé found herself stumped. Ray’s insult was a mish-mash of words presented by his swollen tongue and spit-lined lips. She imagined that whatever Ray was ready to explain had to be utter shit, but it was also obvious it had nstantly shattered Brad.

“Stop it, Ray,” Brad said, sounding a way Alé had never heard from him before. Ray had touched a nerve, though what, Alé truly wouldn’t know. And Ray would be damned if he didn’t use it to his advantage.

“Father, mother, where is my carpet rake?” 

Alé’s mind was blank for a split-second until she realised Ray had adopted a comic impression to imitate Brad. She mentally smacked herself for not recognising the Family Guy character’s inimitable and refined voice sooner.

“I am a young Bradley Colbert, a lonely freak with no friends, whose sole-pleasure is raking the shag carpet in my mother and father’s house.”

“Ray, that is not relevant.”

“Brad, Brad, you don’t even-”

“Ray! You-”

“Listen, Brad, listen!” Ray guffawed, pointing at Brad’s slumped figure as if this was a public humiliation prior to a hanging. “You used to rake the fuckin’ shag carpet in your living room of your parent’s house when you were a kid. You- you used to rake it so all of the fibres would go in the same direction.” He paused, gathering the breath he had been unable to catch in between his words, the gaps replaced by uncontrollable laughter. “That is totally type-A OCD behaviour, Bradley.”

“This is fuckin’…”

“It’s just kind of pathetic,” Ray says for him.

“I did it once, Ray, once! And the point is-”

“The point is, Brad, is that you are so fucking cute when you are angry.”

Alé’s breath was taken away. She realised that Ray truly had a special ability. No wonder he was on the debate team at school - a bonafide-fucking-loser, and a natural at arguing - priceless. Apparently losing your virginity to a prostitute past the age of twenty-two was now less embarrassing than brushing the carpet as a child to make it look presentable.

Brad had admitted defeat. “Turn the engine over, Ray.”

Number ten, eleven letters - a theory to describe and recognise the overt traits traditionally associated with the male-gender.

As neatly as possible, Alé marked each letter of the word MASCULINITY into the poorly-printed boxes of her crossword. 


	3. intruder

Alé tugged the bandana which had been hanging around her neck up and over the lower half of her face before leaving the tent. She soon found herself bathed in blistering rays of sun, the familiar prickling sensation searing her skin. The heat was relentless, but there was no time to dwell on it.

Every stride she took signified that she was on the hunt. Murmurs of a reporter at Camp Mathilda, intended to be embedded with the Battalion during their eventual advance into Iraq, had caught her attention. Earlier on in the day she’d been helping to shovel christ knows how many tonnes of sand out from atop the tarpaulin of the tents which had collapsed late last night. Her only reason for volunteering to do such gruelling work had been the fact she’d slept through most of the storm’s onslaught and felt bad for the rest of the guys. Couldn’t help it if she was a heavy sleeper, she’d declared.

Supposedly, though, Alé had missed the introduction of a ‘communist cock-sucker who writes for Hustler’, as Espera had posed the character profile when he’d passed by only a few minutes ago. While she was sure some of that information must have been lost in translation, she needed to see this guy for herself.

Ray was the first familiar face Alé spotted on her prowl, his body draped over the windshield of one of the Humvees like a damp cloth left on the edge of a basin. Making a beeline towards the guys she knew, surrounded by those she didn’t so much, wasn’t as difficult as it first was. Over time she came to realise that a permanent scowl - eyebrows lowered, forming a perpendicular frown line to her nose, stylised by flared nostrils and pursed lips - is almost all that was required in order to have the men resist the temptation of calling out to her.

In all honesty, she tried not to think about it too much. Same went for the unbearable fucking heat.

The two right-hand-side doors of the Humvee were open, and Alé approached the vehicle with caution. Through the windows which are void of a glass pane she was able to make out three figures. The first being Ray, who had just jumped off the bonnet, t-shirt untucked, greased hands planted under his armpits. Crouched on the ground opposite, caressing his rifle like a child, was Trombley. And in between the two marines whom Alé knew all too well is another man whom she had never laid eyes on before. She’d also be glad if she didn’t have to look at him for much longer.

Her first impression of him was that he was simply awkward and very out of place.

Clothed in a baggy khaki jacket, a t-shirt with the slogan Super Fly on it, and worst of all, a thick gold chain much too big for him, Alé found the situation gut-wrenching. It took years for the entire female species to even be allowed to serve alongside men in situations and places like this one, but apparently, if you’re a bonafide ass who definitely looked like a writer for a jack-off mag - with the only requirement being born with a dick - you may as well fucking tag along to Iraq anyway!

Alé found herself snapped out of her cynical daze as someone else’s collided with her own from below. Brad, who had been working on the underside of the Humvee, shielded his eyes from the sun in order to take a look at the woman stood over him. He would smile at the sight of her if he hadn’t been able to tell how pissed she was.

Arms set firmly by her sides, she returned a stare of disapproval, tilting her head from one side to the other. She’d always reminded Brad of a young Lisa Bonet when she was on The Cosby Show. There was that same sort of casual outlandishness about her, a noticeable charisma. Brad wasn’t clueless as to the cause of her aggravation. The Rolling Stone reporter on the other side of the Humvee had no doubt rubbed her the wrong way. He wasn’t sure he’d ever blame her.

“Figures that he’d be fuckin’ hangin’ around with us.” 

Alé didn’t see it as a coincidence that the reporter had chosen to try and worm his way in with her squad. She was one of the only two women in the entirety of First Battalion, and the black one at that. In her eyes, the prick was no better than a moth to a flame.

“That’s the first time I’ve heard you speak this morning,” Brad declared, pleasantly surprised, even if she was grumbling. “Finally woken up, Miss Jordan?” 

“You’re funny, Brad,” she sighed, though found herself unable to resist replicating the grin which had taken place on Brad’s face due to the absurdity of the situation. Her walk emphasised the sarcasm in her tone. She came to rest a few paces ahead of where Brad was laid, and on one foot she turned, hip-tilted upwards as she rested against the Humvee with a feather-light touch. “And it’s Private Jordan, Sergeant Colbert. Not Miss.”

Brad sat up, rubbing the dirt from his hands. “Duly noted.” 

The noise of laughter found its way through the open windows of the Humvee. Alé’s body went limp for a moment, and Brad watched on as a sudden surge of anger got the better of her.

“Can you not tell him to fuck off, Brad?”

“Hey, it’s not like any of us are exactly welcoming the guy with open arms,” Brad warned. “He’s a reporter. We’ve got to dislike him, naturally.” He paused to await a response, but Alé only glared back at him. “Just do what you do best. Don’t talk to him.” 

The right corner of her mouth drew inwards, causing a dimple of scepticism to form. For a moment she looked ready to exhale the pent up aggravation, to contently give in to Brad’s voice of reason, but there was usually always something to permit that from happening. And that something was usually always Ray.

“There she is!” Ray bellowed. 

The skinny man emerged from the other side of the Humvee and spread his arms, beckoning Alé towards him. Her reaction was inexistent, meaning Ray just had something else to throw at her, something to tease her about. 

“God, you seem happy to see us. Don’t you think she looks happy to see us, Trombley?” he asked, turning between Alé and Trombley like a toy on a mechanical spring.

Alé simply blinked at Ray, and refused to so much as glance in Trombley’s direction.

“Would you just look at that smile?” Ray exclaimed.

“You’ve been talkin’ about me, haven’t you?” 

“No.” 

“Yeah,” Trombley cut in. “The guy over here from Rolling Stone was just asking where you were.”

As soon as the words left Trombley’s lips, a three-way-glare ensued. Brad’s eyes were set firmly on Ray in the hopes his icy gesture might send a mental message that, with the third most rational member of the group being Ray, he’d try his hardest not to encourage any sort of spat.

Trombley was the subject of a hard stare courtesy of Ray, feeling betrayed, but in no way shocked. And Alé had jumped one step ahead of the men around her. She turned to watch the nameless intruder through the open doors of the Humvee, squaring her eyes until the man himself comprehended the animosity directed at him.

“So this is Mr Rolling Stone,” she stated, enunciating more than ever had before. The dishevelled figure in front of her didn’t belong in a war zone, and it seemed no-one had told him so. “You can stop looking at me like I’m gonna bite you. I won’t. Unless you piss me off, of course.”

He seemed speechless for a few moments before he put down the tool he had been holding for Ray. “Nice to meet you.” 

Something in Alé’s expression softened momentarily, but harshness held her tone when she spoke again. “I’m Private Aléjandra Jordan, but you already knew that.” 

“I did.” 

“I thought so.” 

Alé picked up a wrench on the floor beside her foot and threw it towards Ray. He haphazardly caught it at the last second, gawking, awaiting her actions to firmly put this guy in his place. Brad did well to make his amusement less obvious, though continued to watch closely through his platinum blonde eyelashes. 

“Your friends ever write much more about me in the magazine?” Alé asked.

“No, not... not really. Not that I can recall.” 

The setting couldn’t be more perfect for the one-sided stand-off. Brad knew exactly what was going down. Ray, a little less. But he’d read all of the articles, from the rampant, faked tabloid gossip, to the Washington Posts’ endlessly mind-numbing think-pieces on the debate of women serving in First Recon.

At first they’d all laughed, almost choked, when it was announced that two women would be joining their unit. It had all only been rumours beforehand, and their doubts that a woman could even get through the intense training that they had done were the norm. Aléjandra was able to attest to the difficulty of the training herself once she was attached to Bravo’s Third Platoon, and more specifically, Sergeant Colbert’s squad.

They took her in eventually, not because they had to, but simply because, in time, they found that there was no point in resisting or denying. The girl worked hard to be there, and she’d never let anyone down. Ray liked to make out like it was some GI Jane type shit, but Alé came close to smacking him if he ever grew too effeminate about her being there.

“Not that you can recall,” Alé repeated. “At least my intimate pictures didn’t get leaked, huh?”

Ray gasped audibly, finally understanding what was going on. “That was pretty out of line,” he tutted. 

Alé and Brad shot a look at one another. Ray just loved to bullshit, didn’t he? Hell, it wasn’t so out of fucking line for him to brag that he hadn’t even been able to jack-off over Sylvie Rowe’s nude pictures on account of her chest being as flat as ‘my four year old kid cousin’s’. 

The intimate pictures of the only female Corporal in First Recon, attached to Alpha’s Second Platoon, had been visible for the whole world to see once an anonymous hacker - since identified and taken to court - had leaked them to every press outlet and all over the internet once the announcement was made that her and Alé were to serve. One Rolling Stone writer had especially taken advantage of the incident, had even attempted to blackmail Rowe for an interview against the restrictions of the Marine Corps.

Alé emerged from the situation luckier than Sylvie had. Still, she found it difficult to imagine herself in that situation in the first place, anyway. Her Mom would’ve taken a belt to her ass the first chance she got if she’d ever known her daughter had taken naked, suggestive photos of herself. 

Media criticism was something Alé had always expected. She was a woman, she was black, and she’d grown up in Crenshaw. She’d gotten into trouble once or twice at school, but that’s all the press had on her. In comparison to Corporal Rowe, she almost felt untouchable. Guilty, but untouchable. It was weird, really, that they went after the white woman instead of the black, Alé had always thought.

Despite the whole goddamn mess, to the smartest, the degrading way in which Corporal Rowe was treated, followed by the level-headed way in which she reacted, only confirmed the notion that she deserved to serve. But just thinking about it had made Alé’s hands tremble. 

“You sure as hell wouldn’t be ridin’ in this Humvee if I was Corporal Rowe, that’s for sure.” 

The tension would’ve been too much to bear if she’d stayed put, so she wandered a few steps away, back turned to the men.

Ray rounded his lips and whistled lowly, his body turning limp as he leaned against one of the two open doors of the Humvee. “Ah, the girl’s pretty quiet,” he shrugged, lips sparked at the corners.

Brad nodded, watching Alé from the corner of his eye as she strolled to the other side of the metal skeleton between them. “All bark and no bite.”

“She’s all bark and no bite, just like Brad said,” Ray agreed. “That’s right.” 

Alé heard his remark clear as day. Before Ray could react, she leapt into the back seat of the Humvee and yanked the door shut with a deafening clang. Ray tripped up over his own feet, almost falling to the floor as his resting spot was pulled out from behind him. 

“Fuck you, Alé!” he spluttered, arms aloft, thin lips pouted boisterously. “Do you get a kick out of bullying me?”

Suppressing a smirk, she slipped into the back seat of the Humvee and glimpsed at Ray through the opening of the window. “I do, Ray, I do. I’m sorry, baby.” 

“Yeah, well- well fuck you,” Ray sneered, refusing to meet anyone’s gaze. “If it was the other way around you’d be screaming sexism.”

“No, Ray, she’d just knock you out buddy,” Brad sighed. 

The reporter looked on, both deeply terrified and gleefully delighted.


	4. j-lo

“I just don’t get it. Where’d this rumour even come from?”

“I just feel it, okay? And I tell you, she’s dead. Gone. She’s probably six feet under already. They don’t keep them out for that long. The poor, beautiful, Latina honey is a rotting corpse. Girl had talent, didn’t she? Assassination, probably, and it sucks.”

“She ain’t no goddamn Tupac, man.”

While the conversation before her was as painfully endearing as she’d expect from her fellow corpsmen, Alé found herself watching Rolling Stone instead. Pen to paper, lapping up each sentence as the men spoke amongst themselves, he seemed so engrossed in his own desire to get everything down that he hadn’t noticed Alé enter the tent.

“They’re keeping it from us because of morale. Right before we head into another country, are we gonna wanna kill more people if we find out everyone at home ain’t even coping? Unless they tell us it was a fuckin’ Haji who shot her, it ain’t gonna be of much help.”

“Fuckin’ waste of good ass if you ask me.”

“Screwby,” Q-Tip cursed, shaking his head. It was uncertain whether he was pissed at J-Lo’s objectification, or whether the whole situation is a bit much for him. Alé banked on the second.

Rolling Stone had been here for two days now. While Alé was reluctant to admit that she’d found herself impressed at how the man had bore the brunt of sleeping on what was essentially a wooden plank by night, then actually get on with whatever tasks and insults the men threw at him by day, she was still unsettled by his presence. 

His slightly-piggish-face and the all-too casual air about him were increasingly pissing her off whenever he wandered into her vicinity.

It wasn’t really just him, his appearance, or his personality, but rather how he’d fucked with a perfectly good balance. He had absolutely zero authority, but he didn’t have to do whatever was demanded of him. He wasn’t an officer, but he wasn’t exactly treated like a piece of shit. 

That fact threatened one of the only things Alé had been most comfortable with in the corps; the routine and certainty of everything, with everyone knowing their place and responsibilities. The reporter had fucked that up, well and truly.

For the past few hours she’d been been toying with the idea of causing a fuss in order to gauge his reaction. He seemed oblivious enough to everything going on here, and she’d be damned if the possibility of manipulating that to a further point didn’t amuse her. 

She knew he shouldn’t get on her nerves quite as much as he did, but she suspected that if he was from any other publication but Rolling Stone she wouldn’t have minded so much. But he was from Rolling Stone, and so far he hadn’t done anything to show her he wasn’t a cock or otherwise, so why not fuck with his head?

Leaning against one of the empty crate towers, stacked in order to cut off one sleeping quarter from another, Alé towered over the group of men spread across the floor, fiddling with different items as they speculated on the situation. 

“You know, it wouldn’t surprise me at all if J-Lo is dead,” Alé announced, gazing down at her crowd pitifully.

“What you know about it?” Lilley frowned. Alé generally came across as the voice of reason, but playing devil’s advocate proved fun from time to time. 

“Well, it always happens to the young and promising ones, don’t it?” she questioned, eyes exaggeratedly wide. “Selena died young. Then it happened to Aaliyah. You know there was somethin’ fishy about that plane crash. J-Lo could well be the next one.”

“But why? It ain’t exactly normal for shit like that to happen.”

“I don’t know,” she shrugged, “but it ain’t really no coincidence, is it? The music industry is like a cult. Sometimes some girls are just too threatening to the older ones, ‘cause they're getting too successful. They’ll put others out of a job. Just like Selena almost did, just like Aaliyah. Just like J-Lo.”

Alé held some sort of miraculous upper power over the men. They stared at each other as if the meaning of life had just been found, as if the Illuminati had been confirmed, as if she’d just told them who’d really shot JFK. The trick was in speaking as if you might be an expert, not just deluded by your individual opinion, which was something these guys hadn’t clocked onto yet, and probably never would.

“Just like J-Lo,” Lilley repeated.

Alé nodded sympathetically. “Yeah.”

“Poor J-Lo, man.”

“There’s so much shit they don’t want us to know. I bet they’re hiding everythin’ from us, man.”

“Like shit to do with OJ, man!”

Unable to hide the amusement taking ahold of her expression, Alé turned, ready to leave. As she moved, she caught sight of Rolling Stone from the corner of her eye. She’d got so caught up in the facade that she’d forgot who she was actually performing for. Strangely enough, he looked expectant, waiting for Alé to pass on some closing remark, an expectation she gave into.

“You don’t think I actually believe all of that whack shit, do you?” she murmured under her breath. 

“I don't know,” he shrugged, not entirely thrown off. “You did sound pretty convincing.”

“You see, a man’ll believe anything a woman says, but that’s only if you can get them to listen. I caught them at the right time, and I just like to tease.”

-

Exasperated by the state of the mechanics beneath him, Brad sighed aloud, clanging his wrench against the hood of the Humvee. 

“I just need this goddamn turret. Then maybe this whole situation wouldn’t be such bullshit.”

“Calm down, Brad,” Ray huffed, hanging out of the side door. “Could be much worse.”

Brad leant out from under the hood, meeting Ray’s eyes. “In what way could things be worse?”

“I don’t know. You could be a Haji.” 

His words were muffled slightly by the noise of scuffling and panting, which happens to be courtesy of Reyes, who tears up the dust and dirt beneath him as he sprints past. 

“Hell, you could be fuckin’ Rudy,” Ray declared, pointing after the man who had swiftly disappeared into the distance.

Back under the hood, Brad scoffed. “I’d take Rudy over a Haji every day for a million years.” His statement was simple enough, but then he found himself frowning, puzzled at Ray’s proposition. “You wouldn’t?”

“No, yeah, Rudy’s a great guy,” Ray spluttered. “I don’t know if I’d wanna be him, though. Everyone thinkin’ you're gay. But you’re not actually gay. You’d be the only gay here.”

“Who’s the only gay here?” Alé asked as she appeared at the side of the Humvee, hands on hips, lips pressed into a scowl.

“Ray,” Brad called, hidden by the hood.

“Thought so.” 

Brad’s arm hung out of the side of the hood, his hand clutching a canister which he began to wave around in the air. “Alé, can you grab this for me for a second?” 

She was quick to respond, taking the heavy item from Brad with ease.

“Hey, I’ve been sat here for hours!” Ray exclaimed, eyebrows furrowed like a child. “She strolls up and you ask her to help you? I said I’d help you!”

“Calm the fuck down Ray,” Alé mused, using the canister to do reps whilst purposefully flexing the muscles in her arms, knowing how much it would frustrate Ray. “I’m only holding something for him, and it’s not like it's his dick, okay? Are you really that protective of Brad?” she questioned, before going over the top and putting on a childishly whiny voice. “Are you?”

Ray leapt out from his seat, a dust cloud swirling around his boots as they collided with the earth. “Fuck you.” Wanting to show off after allowing himself to be decisively humiliated, he made a beeline for a tall cylinder of tin which lay next to another Humvee. It looked heavy, but Ray intended to get a kick out of waving it about anyway. 

“Look, Brad, Alé, I can bench this.”

Having been occupied watching Brad work under the hood, Alé felt like a mother who’d taken her eyes off her child for too long. The metal cylinder clearly weighed too much, but that wasn’t stopping Ray. 

“Brad, tell him to put that down,” she called, hoping Ray might hear and listen to the voice of reason without having to be reprimanded by his superior. “It’s way too heavy for him.”

Without so much as batting an eyelid, Brad groaned, “Ray, I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

“I’m not kidding, Brad. His legs look as if they’re about to snap.” 

As the words left her mouth, Ray’s legs just about gave away, but he managed to somehow stay upright while keeping the tube in his arms, making the whole debacle look comical. Alé was about to laugh before she spotted numerous veins protruding from Ray’s neck, and a grimace took place over her lips. 

“Seriously, he’s going to hurt himself.”

Just as Brad contemplated looking up to allow himself a moment of comedy, a bellow brewed in Ray’s throat. The weight overpowered him and he was forced onto his back, tumbling to the ground with an almighty clang.

“Goddamn it! What’d I tell you?” Brad yelled, not moving a muscle. 

Instead, he allowed Alé to run over, almost choking on laughter as she knelt by his side and held his head as if he’d been snipered down by the enemy. Ray was only toying with her, that was clear - he thrived off attention, and it’s exactly what he got. 

“Jesus, Ray!” she squealed, checking over his body for any sign of injury. The metal tube lay by his side, rolling slightly from the leftover momentum. “Are you alright?”  
With a winning smile, he leant up on his elbows. ”I heard you like bad boys, Alé. I’m bad at everything.”

“You’re a piece of shit, Ray.”

God help her when they finally roll into war, she prayed.


End file.
